Nightrunners of Bengal

by John Masters

  A mile out they rode through the grove of seven tall trees and seven smaller ones which lay just behind his camp and was called Monkeys’ Well. Slabs from the coping of a ruined well were scattered there on both sides of the trail. A band of long-tailed grey langur monkeys chattered and shrieked among the branches; their ancestors had given the place its name. She had pointed silently at the well; there a deep orange-black head rocked from side to side three feet above the ground. The hamadryad’s throat shaded down to golden yellow, and its olive-green white-chevroned back curled out of sight between the stones. With hood fully expanded it watched them pass. Rodney looked back as the elephants strode on, and saw the snake uncoil and slither like a green hawser through the dust, while the monkeys chattered louder.

  Did he remember all that? When she called him “Rodney” it was a code and meant she was trying to stand outside herself, to see as he, an Englishman, saw.

  He nodded again. “I remember. Sumitra, do you know what that hunt reminds me of? Those tapestries in the audience chamber.”

  Through his telescope he had watched a tapestry hunt that day. The blackbuck ran, the cheetah ran--and the cheetah ran the fastest of all the animals. It was not sport, but it was beautiful. Its symmetry had surrendered the quality of motion; only the posed formality remained now in his memory. There had been not terror, but representation of terror in the morning sun; not movement, but a weft of running in a warp of earth. The figures would be embroidered on that valley still, and the buck would still be running, still alive.

  He said, “It’s nearly over now. I must go back. Bhowani will seem flat after this. You’ve made it for me, ma’am. I have no way to thank you.”

  She did not answer.

  It was not “nearly over”; it was quite over. It had finished when the rajahs began to arrive for the hunt. For days past they had been coming, with their horses, elephants, and ornate carriages. Great Jamalpur from the far south had come; Gangoh, Tikri, Gohana, Kiloi, Mamakhera, and Ganeshghar from the east; the Sikhs, Phillora and Tarn Taran, from the Punjab, the land of the five northern rivers; the Mohammedan Nawabs of Jalalabad and Purkhas; Lalkot in force--they did not have far to travel, for only the leased territory of Bhowani lay between Kishanpur and Lalkot; once the two states had adjoined.

  In his father’s time such a gathering of princes would never have been permitted. It could have meant only intrigue or war. Now--the Company was strong, and the princes had to amuse themselves with mass tiger-hunting.

  The Rani said abruptly, “The English party--they are all arriving tomorrow. The Lieutenant Governor from Agra I have met, and of course Mr. Dellamain. I think I have seen the fat colonel--Bull-estrode? The others I do not know. There will be a major general from Gondwara. What is he like?”

  Rodney studied the long ash on his cheroot. He wished he knew what she was thinking about; it would be something unpredictable--perhaps it was better not to know. He supposed she was giving him a chance to hide his sadness, stifle his emotion, and be flippant. He answered her lightly and quickly.

  “Sir Hector Pierce? He’s only been in command at Gondwara since November last. Queen’s service. Infantry, I believe. He stands as high as your knee, ma’am, and he has several nicknames--the Baronet, Napoleon the Noughth...”

  “Is he a good general?”

  He glanced up in surprise at the half-hidden intensity of her question. He had no idea what sort of general Pierce was. He didn’t seem to have been in the Crimea and, in India at least, had no reputation of any kind. He said, “I don’t know, but he’s deceptive, I can tell you that. I’ve only seen him once. I was drilling some men on the square in Bhowani and didn’t even know the general had come up from Gondwara. Then I saw this little square man, about five foot one, in a plain brown suit and a tall black hat. He was standing on a portable mounting block which I suppose his groom has to carry about everywhere. He held a rolled umbrella like a sword on one shoulder; his other hand was tucked into his breast and his head stuck forward a little--just like the pictures of Napoleon. The groom stood behind him, holding his horse-- a grey stallion at least seventeen and a half hands high. A couple of my sepoys off duty were squatting in front of him, eyeing him nervously--and I don’t blame them--but he took no notice. He has a pasty face, a hook nose, and a square beard. Of course I knew at once who it must be because all sorts of jokes were being made up about him even then. I wanted to laugh.”

  He turned, threw the stub of his cheroot over the parapet, and watched the falling point of light until it disappeared under the wall.

  “I marched up to report myself. Then I didn’t want to laugh. He has eyes like stones; he’s very polite--never raises his voice above a whisper--smiles primly but with a sort of reserve you can’t fathom. We talked a bit, then he scrambled on to the colossal horse and rode away up the Pike with the rolled umbrella on his shoulder. I watched him go. I still don’t know whether I want very much to see more of him, or whether I never want to meet him again.”

  He couldn’t manage any more; at this moment Sir Hector did not really interest him. He’d have to break off, say good night, ride back to camp. Sumitra’s presence was warm and familiar beside him, and all their hours together had led naturally to this place and time. He knew her, and they were friends within the agreed, unspoken limits.

  He did not care now whether she had murdered her husband. Here in Kishanpur the idea of murder did not seem to outrage him. Then, he thought, the old Rajah might have tried to degrade her in some beastly way, and only she could know it. Certainly she was resolute enough to kill--but surely only in anger, or perhaps for love, or for this soil of Kishanpur. She could not be a selfish killer.

  There were barriers between them, defining their friendship. On her side, she would not discuss the real problems of the state with him, and he would have liked to talk to her about something so close to her heart; he had seen her absently caressing the rough wall of the fort as though it were her child’s skin. But that was her barrier; she’d built it. He put it down to fear of British interference and kept away from the forbidden subjects.

  On the other side there was a fence too, around the difference in their sexes. That one he had built himself, but he was not sure now who was keeping it so carefully intact. In the beginning she had flaunted her sex at him, loading her slightest gesture with invitation, letting her body touch him on-purpose-by-accident. It had amazed and alarmed him. When he knew her better, he concluded that she was goading herself to wipe out a sense of race superiority she presumed him to have; that she wanted to force him to acknowledge beauty in an Indian woman, and desire it. If he had been another kind of Englishman, he would have felt degraded by such desire, and she had intended to degrade him. There had been a wall of nothing behind her eyes in those days-- like the nautch girl just now.

  It was as well. His little fence was weak; he had a passionate love of women’s bodies, and Joanna would not-- could not?--give it release, Oh, such embarrassment! He frowned. Recently Sumitra had turned shy and hardly let him see her eyes.

  He braced himself to say goodbye and cut off this moment of intimacy in the high air. The magic ended here, and he could not find the right word. He searched in his mind for something casual, but he said only, “Sumitra!”

  She started up and interrupted him with sudden harshness. “Captain Savage, I want to free my Dewan for his other duties. I want you to command my army, instead of him. I have decided that no one but a British officer can make it efficient, and I want it to be.”

  “Why?” The startled question was jerked out of him by an unthinking reflex.

  “Because I do--oh, pride. Don’t you understand?” He nodded foolishly; that was what Dellamain had said. He didn’t believe it, and didn’t know why. She was saying, “You are good. I have seen you, seen the improvement in the officers. It will be a contract for ten years. Perhaps you will want to stay by then. Things change. You will have the local rank of major general, with pay of four thousand rupees a
month. Let me know your answer by the end of the tiger hunting.”

  Her voice cracked on the last words. She ran across the roof walk, and he listened to the hurrying echo of her slippers as it faded down the stairway.

  6

  It’s like going out to sea in a little boat. Look, there’s the city on the land, there are the fishing boats anchored in the harbour, there’s the open ocean ahead, great dark waves with the sun shining on the crests.”

  Geoffrey Hatton-Dunn’s wide sweep embraced the fort behind them, the huts in the misty fields, and the jungle-covered hills rolling away ahead. Rodney smiled, and Lady Isobel exclaimed, “What a lovely idea!”

  The elephant swayed steadily on; the mahout dozed, squatting cross-legged on its neck. Geoffrey’s imagination raced happily, and animation shone in his long face. His wife and friend listened, chuckling, and he forgot to drawl.

  “Dash it, yes--but we’re not in little boats. We’re a battle fleet in fine ahead. Now that the Lieutenant Governor’s gone back to Agra, don’t you agree that it’s Dellamain’s duty to make a signal: ‘England expects . . .’? He could hoist it on that parasol they’ve put up in his howdah, or stream it from the elephant’s tail--yards and yards of bunting.”

  Leaning forward, he gestured with his hands; the monocle, forgotten, swung and tapped the pearl buttons of his sleek tan coat.

  “A fleet’s too cramping. We have all sorts of nautical people. Look--ahead there on the next elephant: de Forrest --he’s obviously poor Franklin frozen up somewhere in the Northwest Passage. Caroline--she’s Bligh, browbeating the crew of the Bounty. I do hope Sir Hector doesn’t make her walk the plank or anything. Sir Hector--h’m, he’s just himself. Surely Napoleon couldn’t have worn a great tall beaver hat like that on the Bellerophon? Let’s say he’s a low figurehead to overawe the poor Indian. Behind us we have Colonel Bulstrode, the gallant marine, spitting over the gun’l into the sea and picking his teeth with a marline spike. What is it really? Dash me, it’s a hunting knife! Mrs. Bulstrode--she’s perfectly dressed for a voyage on an elephant, I mean a ship, on a beautiful morning, and all the rajahs looking so romantic and princely. She’s got eight hatpins to keep her hat on, she can’t see a thing through the veil, and she’s knitting, dash it; she’s knitting the colonel a red wool cummerbund! Let’s pretend she’s a bumboat woman.”

  “Geoffrey! that doesn’t sound very polite.”

  “You’re wrong, my dear, it is. Well, call her Lady Hamilton if you prefer. Now there’s Victoria with them. She’s a spoil of war and is about to be ravished--dashed if I don’t think it would do her a world of good.”

  “Geoffrey!”

  They were passing through the grove at Monkeys’ Well and Rodney glanced over the side to look for the hamadryad, but it was not visible. Trying to think, he listened with half an ear to the others and did his best to join in. Isobel knew him too well; she had eyed him questioningly once or twice these past two days. He did not know why he shouldn’t tell her his problem, except that he guessed the Rani would rather have it kept secret, at least until he had made up his mind whether to accept.

  It was a hell of a problem, because Joanna was at the root of it. The pros were clear enough, and mainly benefited him; the cons were not so clear, and affected Joanna. He’d have to get away by himself and think. He might talk to Colonel Bulstrode about it. Bulstrode knew a great deal about India; at least he’d give a shrewd and unbiased opinion. Dellamain would have to be asked too; it might have to go higher. That depended: if the politicals really wanted Kishanpur to have the assistance of a British officer, they would probably have him seconded for indefinite duty but hold him on the books of his regiment; if they didn’t care much one way or the other they might make him send in his papers before allowing him to accept. That was a large con; he did not want to resign his commission.

  Lady Isobel was speaking to him. “Rodney, Joanna is a little--put out that they did not invite her to this, when you were here.”

  He shrugged and muttered that he’d done what he could, short of begging.

  Lady Isobel pressed him. “Yes, but surely it’s very extraordinary of the Rani. It isn’t as if she were quite ignorant of what we call good manners--“

  To his relief, Geoffrey turned and butted obliviously into the conversation. “You’re looking peaked, old boy--been workin’ too hard. Bhowani’s been very gay, ha! while you’ve been rottin’ heah. Twinkle won first prize for carriage horses at the show. Two-Bottle Tom finally got the D.T.’s; John McCardle took his Old Testament away and says he’ll recover soon. Louisa Bell had a boy; Mrs. Caversham managed to look quite gracious at bein’ a grandmother--better not remind her of it too often, though. Dotty van Steengaard’s expectin’ anothah in May. Eddie Hedges is mashin’ Victoria, poor girl--but you’ll have heard all this from Joanna. Haven’t had a moment to talk to you since we got heah, except in that crowd on Saturday after dinnah, and then deah cousin Caroline was bombardin’ you with

  questions about the riot--“

  Rodney broke in hastily, anxious for Lady Isobel to forget the Rani and her unexplained rudeness. “By George, yes, she fairly cross-examined me, didn’t she? Even de Forrest seemed interested--or pretended to. What’s come over him? Did he go out yesterday to see the city with Miss Langford? She said they were going to.”

  Lady Isobel answered with an abstracted frown, “They did. They missed the Installation to do it. There was plenty of time before or after--“

  “That Installation, or enthronement, or whatever you’d call it, was one of the most gorgeous sights I’ve ever seen,” Geoffrey interrupted eagerly. “And do you know what I noticed most? The gold stripes down the Lieutenant Governor’s and Dellamain’s trousers! The rajahs and maharajahs and nawabs and courtiers and all the rest of them were lavish, brilliant--but formless. Then, in the front row, those two in plain blue civil uniforms, and if you half-closed your eyes the stripes down the outsides of their trousers--broad gold stripes--absolutely dominated everything. They were so --disciplined.”

  Lady Isobel said, “I noticed the little boy most. He looked so pathetic, loaded with jewels and that toy sword--with those huge eyes. You’ve seen the Rani, of course, Rodney. Is he like her?”

  “Yes.”

  At the Installation Sumitra had conformed to the Indian custom and watched from a screened balcony. Rodney had glanced up once, but there were no lights on the balcony and the princesses could look out through the gauze over the hanging forest of cut-glass chandeliers without themselves being at all visible.

  The conversation died. The path wound southward, keeping fairly close to the river, so that sometimes they saw the flash of water through the trees. This area, for centuries the hunting preserve of the Rajahs of Kishanpur, was typical dry jungle of Central India. Scrub-covered ridges, rough with the outcroppings of trap rock, rolled ahead into a distant smoke-blue haze. In friendly silence they passed through a bare stretch, then a mile of dwarf teak where the huge skeletal leaves crackled and turned to powder under the elephants’ feet, then open land again, yellow with coarse grass and picketed by stunted thorn bushes.

  They had covered nine miles from the fort and reached Kishan Falls. Lady Isobel looked up ahead and caught her husband’s sleeve; Rodney whistled; Geoffrey gasped, recovered himself, and lifted the monocle carelessly to his eye.

  A tented city rose on parkland running back from the high bank of the river. At one stride of their elephant they passed out of the jungle’s neutral greens and yellows into a brilliance from the past. Mounted sentries, wearing yellow robes and domed iron helmets and carrying old-fashioned spears, guarded each entrance to the camp. Tents of many colours stood in long loose ranks separated by wide avenues. Some of the tents were a hundred feet in length by forty feet in width, and rose thirty feet above the grass. Screens of coloured canvas curtained off separate clusters of tents, making cities within the city, so that each rajah could withdraw into his own place and amuse himself in his own way. Here
Phillora would fondle the twenty breasts of the ten girls he had brought with him, and dream of the six hundred and forty-four breasts left unfondled in his far-away palace; there Kiloi would smoke opium pipes and listen to zither music; there Purkhas would drink cold water and compose poetic apothegms in classical Persian; there the little boy who reigned in Kishanpur would play with a velvet doll and pull Sumitra’s hair.

  In the light air the standards and banners flapped close to staffs tied insecurely to the tentpoles. Above all the others, as befitted them, were the primrose of Kishanpur; the dull purple of Jamalpur, as sedate and imperial as the state itself; and the irregular tiger stripes of Lalkot, whose history was a gloomy book of murder, treachery, and tyranny. Above the Commissioner’s tent in the British enclave a momentary breeze tugged at the largest Union Jack Rodney had ever seen; he laughed suddenly and nudged Geoffrey : the flag was upside down. The elephant stopped; the mahout called and grunted; the elephant shuffled and slowly knelt. They had arrived.

  Later, as the sun was setting, Rodney left his tent and walked through the camp towards the river. A knoll by the Up of the falls overlooked a mile-long stretch of water, and there he sat down under a wild lime tree and let the wind dry his sweat-soaked hair. Upstream the river ran four hundred yards wide between low wooded banks, and looked shallow. Still at that width, it slipped smoothly over a fault in the trap rock to make a hissing green-cold curtain one hundred feet high. Below, the banks closed in at once and crowded the tormented river through a steep gorge. The last of the sun shone on Rodney’s face and gilded the mist which hovered at the break of the fall.

  Across the river a man worked with a sickle to clear a tiny field slanting down to the cliff edge. That would be his hut, three hundred yards above the falls on the far bank, with a smoke smudge drifting northward from it. He watched a bullock cart creep down and past the hut, and heard the driver’s faint “Ah! ah!” as he urged the bullocks on into the water. There was a track there; the cart dragged a dust cloud behind it. He glanced up the near bank--yes, another hut, opposite the other, the sure sign of a ford. It could be passable only for a few of the dry months. He wondered how many men had tried to cross when it was too deep, and been swept down and over the falls. He bit the end of a cheroot and half-closed his eyes. . . .